Gossamer Wing 1

by Delphine Dryden

He laughed, the sound like a warm velvet touch against her skin. “Careful, sugar plum, or I’ll get in a snit and refuse to tighten you back up. You’ll be left naked.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll just ring the concierge and have a maid sent up once I’ve woken from my nap.”

  “These marks won’t have faded by then, I suspect.” He traced the impressions left by the formfitting garment, pulling a contented hum from Charlotte. “I prefer your skin in the morning, when the only lines are the ones the sheets have left there in the night.”

  “You’re assuming I’ve slept without a nightgown, I take it.”

  Dexter pressed a kiss to her shoulder, letting his lips linger there as his hands began to wander. “In my imagination, you always sleep without a nightgown.”

  After dinner later that evening the concierge assured them that the housekeeping staff had not moved, or indeed seen, a leather pouch of any sort in the suite.

  Seventeen

  PARIS, FRANCE

  CHARLOTTE HESITATED A long few moments at the curb when the taxi deposited her and Dexter in front of the brilliantly lit Palais Garnier.

  It was their first night back in Paris, after an uneventful few more days spent in Nancy for the sake of their cover. Murcheson had secured tickets, and Charlotte wanted very much to see the spectacle of the famous opera in action, all lights and music and glamorous crowd. She was very tired of the building that housed it, however. Looking at it, she was struck with a pang of homesickness for New York City, its familiar theater district, the soaring façade of Trinity Church.

  Paris had its own beauty, but it didn’t feel quite real to Charlotte somehow. She felt unreal in general, stranded in a limbo of inactivity, caught in the same haze of sunlit faux-honeymoon days and sex-crazed nights that had characterized the voyage to France. She still couldn’t quite believe her mission was over. None of it had sunk in yet. Although she knew she would have to work it out at some point, she had no idea what came next. The future was even more daunting than the prospect of entering the opera house again.

  “Did you know they wanted to turn the Palais Garnier into a museum, decades ago?” she asked Dexter, halting just outside the periphery of the gathering crowd. “Somebody proposed a new building for the opera, more modern. Instead they renovated this one. I’m glad they did. It’s a beautiful structure.”

  Dexter waited at her side, seeming sensitive to her reluctance. “What happened to the new building?”

  “They couldn’t raise the funds,” Charlotte murmured, lifting her gaze to the roofline where the golden statues seemed to shine with a light of their own in the brilliant electric illumination. “There was a war on, after all.”

  “We could return to the hotel,” Dexter offered. “Leave a message for Murcheson and go back? The Ritz is almost like a second home to me now.”

  She smiled. “We’ll stay for at least the first half. I don’t know why I’m being so silly. I did get away.”

  “By the skin of your teeth, from what you said.”

  “I suppose I’m just still wary. I keep telling myself my work in France is done, and yours doesn’t put us in nearly as much danger. But some part of me is still on alert. Perhaps by the time I’m back home, my nerves will have finally settled down.”

  He pulled her hand more firmly over his arm and led her into the glittering gilded foyer.

  Charlotte relaxed within a few minutes. It was different with people crowding the rooms, movement on the stairs, lights everywhere sparkling over gowns and headdresses and jewels. Merely standing in the midst of it all provided a rich and heady visual feast, the people and paintings all so ornate and colorful the eye could scarcely find a spot to rest.

  The grand box in which Murcheson was already seated was a respite from the crowd and noise, allowing an overview of it all without the overwhelming business. Such, mused Charlotte, was the privilege of the privileged—to have access to every luxury, but suffer only as much excess as one cared to tolerate.

  “Sit and have a drink,” Murcheson advised them as soon as they entered. He snapped at a page who stood by with a tray of champagne, then shooed the lad out once Charlotte and Dexter had each taken a glass.

  “I have my industrialist hat on tonight, I’m afraid. What do you know about the French steamrail project?” he asked bluntly once they were alone.

  Charlotte shrugged, at a loss, but Dexter leaned forward with a frown. “I know they want to expand it vastly over the next several years. I also know you’re most likely bidding for it, and I wish I were in a position to compete. The contract will mean years of steady revenue.”

  “Yes, the sweet low-interest milk of the government teat,” Murcheson confirmed. “Of course, as France is only late to the game of large manufacture—excepting war machines, naturally—most of their people are at a disadvantage. Their late entry into the global steam-car market hasn’t profited them enough to retool for anything larger and more lucrative. So the contract will almost certainly go to a foreign bidder . . .”

  “Except?” Dexter supplied.

  “Precisely,” Murcheson nodded. “Except . . . our friend Dubois. I just found out he’s preparing a bid that would undercut me substantially if my information is correct. However, his bid is almost completely unrealistic because it’s based on equipment and facilities he does not yet possess. Even that could be remedied, if he could afford them, but it seems he can’t. Not remotely.”

  “How badly off is he?”

  “All but bankrupt. If it weren’t for his political connections he’d be in debtor’s prison right now, I suspect. He must win this bid to survive.”

  The house lights dimmed and the crowd rustled to a hush. The orchestra finished tuning up and swung into the overture.

  “Perhaps that’s why he’s bold enough to meet with Gendreau at his own office in the middle of the day,” Charlotte whispered as the curtains drew back. Norma had never been her favorite opera, and she was far more interested in what Murcheson had to say. “Desperation. Maybe that’s what Gendreau is really doing back here; he has some secret new invention Dubois thinks will make him money. But if I may, I had a question about something we discussed yesterday?”

  Dexter agreeably sat back, letting the two of them whisper in front of him. Charlotte almost jumped as his hand skimmed over her back, which was bare in the sweeping plum-colored satin gown she’d chosen.

  It was another husbandly gesture, that delicate touch—proprietary and deliberately flouting propriety just because he could. Charlotte willed herself to ignore it.

  “I’m not a huge fan of Bellini myself,” Murcheson confessed. “What was your question?”

  “Well, I thought perhaps by focusing on Dubois and Gendreau and Coeur de Fer, we’re coming at things from the wrong angle. Tell me more about Simone Vernier.”

  “That could be a long story. First let me remind you that officially, there is no ‘we’ here, Lady Hardison. But in an informal capacity, let’s see . . . as far as we know, Vernier slipped into Dubois’s confidence by pretending to be a double agent. She made no secret of the fact she was a spy, but had convinced him she was secretly working for the post-royalists against the ruling Égalité faction. He’d been working both sides himself, courting the current regime but still making money selling weapons to the ousted party on the side.”

  “That was why the Égalité were watching him?”

  “We can only assume so. But shortly before the treaty was signed, Vernier traveled to Cambridge in the guise of a well-known Swiss chemist. While she was there, she managed to purloin the formula for the explosive. The researchers were all quite charmed by her, from what I hear. Never suspected a thing. Apparently before she became a spy, she’d been a chemical engineer, which was probably why the French sent her after the documents. She knew their language.”

  “Would you like to change seats with me, sugarplum?”

  Charlotte glanced at Dexter, startled. “Oh! Oh, that’s very kind. Yes, thank you, I believe I would
.”

  She was surprised that Dexter was so interested in the opera, but quickly forgot in her curiosity about the documents and the conversation with Murcheson.

  “You said Vernier hadn’t shared the notes with anyone in the French government. How can you be sure of that?”

  Murcheson shrugged. “She wouldn’t have had time. By the time she returned to France, it seems Dubois had found her out. He killed her within a few hours of her return, if the reports are accurate. Drugged her, then stuffed a pillow over her face. Ignominious way to go. Dubois was charged, but evidently managed to buy his way out of a guilty verdict.”

  “That’s monstrous. Especially if—was she really Dubois’s mistress in . . . in practice?” Charlotte asked, glad for the dark that hid her blush.

  “Oh, yes. He wasn’t quite as revolting in those days, of course. Since the war he’s degenerated. His appearance finally starting to reflect his habits, I suppose.”

  “Now he’s monstrous inside and out,” Charlotte concurred. “Vernier must have been fanatically devoted to her country, to make such a sacrifice. It hardly seems right that she died for it. Even if it was the French she was loyal to.”

  “Even then?” Murcheson teased. “Are you growing fond of the French, Baroness?”

  “I’ve grown exceedingly fond of their food and wine, sir.”

  “Ah, understandable.”

  “I confess I’m disappointed. I thought perhaps I’d come up with a new direction of enquiry, but apparently—”

  Dexter tapped Charlotte’s arm, getting her attention and handing her the opera glasses he’d been using for the duration of her conversation. He pointed not to the stage, however, but to the first box just above it on the opposite side of the theater.

  “Look who’s here.”

  She looked through the device, puzzled, and fiddled with the focus knobs until the image popped up, sharp and clear, and she saw the man’s face: it was Roland Dubois.

  * * *

  THE CRUSH AT the interval wasn’t any bother to Dexter, but he could tell it was no joy for Charlotte. She nearly disappeared in the crowd several times before he latched onto her hand firmly and instructed her to walk behind him.

  Thus aligned, they beat a path to the other side of the lobby where special opera programs and books of historical interest about the Palais Garnier were sold.

  Charlotte excused herself and dashed for the doors that led to the necessary—after making a quip about it being lucky she already knew where they were—while Dexter and Murcheson kept a wary eye on the crowd.

  “Monsieur Murcheson,” an oily voice intruded.

  Just as Murcheson had suggested he might, Dubois had found them. Murcheson believed he would push for a meeting with Dexter, ostensibly in hopes of luring his business interest away from Murcheson. The real reason, Murcheson predicted, could be far more sinister. As Coeur de Fer had been working for Dubois and had clearly identified Charlotte as a person of interest, Dubois must know Dexter and Charlotte were in possession of the recovered plans. He might even suspect that Dexter’s role was in some way related to the doomsday substance. Dexter and Charlotte would both be at risk as long as Dubois thought they knew something about the explosive, and the increased scrutiny from Dubois might impede Dexter’s ability to accomplish all he still needed to in Le Havre.

  “Dubois,” Murcheson deigned to answer, his tone suddenly dripping with aristocratic hauteur. Dexter was quite impressed with the transformation. “Allow me to introduce Baron Hardison. Lord Hardison, Roland Dubois. M’sieur Dubois makes steam cars and so forth.”

  Dexter accepted the handshake Dubois offered, suppressing a grimace at the soft clamminess of that hand.

  “The Makesmith Baron,” Dubois drawled. He said it like it was an insult, a title of shame, but Dexter only nodded. “Here to strike a deal with my adversary?”

  “I’m on my honeymoon, actually,” Dexter corrected him, unable to resist adopting a hint of Murcheson’s disdain.

  “So I’ve heard. Congratulations. When will you be returning to the American Dominions, then?”

  Another insult, with the clear implication that Dubois hoped it was soon. Dexter ignored the hand Murcheson placed on his arm in warning. He was a businessman, after all. He had dealt with men like Dubois too many times before, and he wouldn’t let himself be drawn.

  “We’re fortunate enough to be at our leisure here, with no particular deadline for our return. The climate is quite pleasant, and I gather Lady Hardison has a great deal of shopping still to do. Apparently there are substantial qualitative differences between the shopping opportunities in Paris and those in New York.”

  Dubois’s smarmy smile made Dexter glad for Murcheson’s restraining hand. Something about the man made him want to cuff him sharply on the side of the head.

  “We must meet then, during your long stay. Discuss business? I believe we may have some mutual acquaintances. Other than Monsieur Murcheson, of course.”

  “Ah. Well, no promises, old chap. My schedule is already rather full and after all, it is my honeymoon.” Dexter tried as hard as he could to inject the suggestion that even to ask had been wildly inappropriate of Dubois; he suspected he didn’t do it nearly as well as Murcheson could have, however. Perhaps he had just spent too long working to shed that aristocratic demeanor. Or perhaps he just wasn’t cut out for spying.

  Charlotte, however, obviously was. Her headache-inducing persona was firmly back in place as she reattached herself to his arm like a limpet. Murcheson had advised her to appear as harmless and as brainless as she possibly could to divert any suspicion Dubois might have about her real purpose for visiting France, on the off chance Coeur de Fer hadn’t already spoiled that angle for her.

  “Dexter,” she pouted, “you’re not talking business at the opera, are you? Oh, hello there.”

  “My wife, Lady Hardison. Monsieur Dubois,” said Dexter.

  “Enchanté, madame.”

  Instead of taking Charlotte’s hand in the polite lady’s version of a handshake she was obviously offering, Dubois pulled her gloved fingers to his lips and kissed them as though he relished the act.

  Charlotte’s other hand dug into Dexter’s arm like a claw, but her facial expression never flickered.

  “Ooo, how continental!” she simpered at Dubois. “So charming!”

  “Your husband says you are enjoying Paris. Perhaps he and I can meet one day while you are occupied in enriching the city’s coffers, non?”

  “Oh!” Charlotte cried with a giggle at the end, “No, actually! Isn’t that funny, you said non meaning doesn’t that sound nice, but my response actually was no! It’s our honeymoon, you see. I’m afraid he couldn’t possibly. I simply can’t spare him!”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have to be a long meeting, cupcake,” Dexter said thoughtfully, just to watch her at work a little longer.

  Somehow, Charlotte managed to keep smiling and simpering as she began flaying him with tiny verbal knives. “You’ve taken such a great many meetings with Mr. Murcheson already, darling. One might almost think you weren’t on your honeymoon at all. Isn’t that so silly? If you spend too much time on all your business I’m liable to forget it’s our honeymoon too, and then where will we be?”

  Certainly not in the same bed, she somehow managed to imply. Her eyelashes seemed to have grown half an inch or so, expressly for the purpose of batting. Had he been a henpecked husband in truth, Dexter thought he might be in serious trouble. “Of course, darling, but as we’re in Europa anyway and the opportunity to meet with—”

  “Ah!” Charlotte said, a dainty little cry of distress. Her fingers pressed to her temple in a tasteful display of genteel agony.

  “Lady Hardison, are you quite well?” Murcheson asked, leaning in like a considerate grandfather.

  “Oh dear. I’m terribly sorry. I’m suddenly feeling quite overcome!”

  “Darling, perhaps we should return to the hotel.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what
we ought to do,” Charlotte agreed. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, as though she might faint at any minute.

  Dexter caught a lapse on Murcheson’s part; the man couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the swooning bride. For his part he was struck by the utter absurdity, all of them standing there pretending they didn’t know what the others were about. It was not just theatre, it was farce. Suddenly he was sick to death of the whole ridiculous thing.

  “You must take my car,” Murcheson offered. “Plenty of time in the second act for my driver to see you home and return for me.”

  “Oh, how very kind,” Charlotte said, drooping picturesquely against Dexter’s arm.

  “Do you think that wise?” Dubois said suddenly. Dexter looked at him sharply. He seemed unduly agitated, and was hiding it badly; his face was decidedly pale and damp. “Should we not summon a doctor here for the lady if she is ill?”

  “Nonsense.” Dexter put an arm around Charlotte’s waist, taking shameless advantage of the feigned illness to press her inappropriately close. His interest in her, at least, was genuine. And the sooner they were back at the hotel, the better. “A bit of fresh air and quiet, a few minutes out of the crush and the lady will be right as rain. Won’t you, my love?”

  “If you think so, husband,” Charlotte answered with a breathless earnestness. “You always know best.”

  Murcheson suffered a sudden coughing fit, and Dexter sneezed in a way that strongly resembled a stifled snort of laughter.

  The chimes sounded the approaching end of the interval, drawing the crowd back into the house. With a last frantic glare at Murcheson and Dexter, Dubois departed reluctantly to return to his seat as the two men half-carried Charlotte out the door.

  “Overdoing it a tad at the end, don’t you think, my fruit-bedecked meringue?” Dexter teased Charlotte once the coast was clear.

  “Shameless,” Murcheson agreed, hailing his driver from the middle of the rank of waiting steam cars.

  “It was either that or slap him. Didn’t something about that man just make you want to strike him?” Charlotte asked.